


skin-to-skin

by savemeaplate



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bottom Lance (Voltron), Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Humor, Kissing, Lance in body paint, Lance is a social worker, Lance's Amazing Ass, Multi, Rimming, Shiro's a bodypaint artist, Shower Sex, bottomlanceweek2020, he's also fine as hell, he's also tatted the fuck up bc im a hoe for that, public sex-ish, thigh-fucking, we're going intercural baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:41:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25451053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savemeaplate/pseuds/savemeaplate
Summary: Shiro is a popular body-painting artist, and Lance is his studio's brand-new body painting model. Shiro's real used to seeing hot people mostly nude but this pretty boy... this pretty boy's different.BOTTOM LANCE WEEK DAY 2: INTERCRURAL + RIMMING
Relationships: Lance/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 235





	skin-to-skin

**Author's Note:**

> second day with some shance - Shiro's a horny bastard and Lance has a fat ass. Sexy shenanigans ensue
> 
> im on [twitter!](https://twitter.com/guardameunplato)

Shiro is a professional.

Even when he was still using spaghetti sauce, Kool-Aid and chocolate ice-cream to draw people with googly eyes and stringy hair on the white walls of his parents’ front hallway, he’d taken his art  _ very  _ seriously. 

It’s how he gets so good at painting on so many canvases: paper, glass, ceramic, drywall, stone, and, well, canvas. 

It’s how he gets through those first few rough years out of college with his visual arts degree. How he manages to keep his head from catching angry-fire like a goddamn tiki torch when people solicit him and offer to pay him in publicity, like if he tried to pay a light bill with “exposure” the electric company wouldn’t cut his power faster than he could say, “could you at least leave my studio lamps on?”

Shiro loves tattoos. He has several up and down his arms, a few on his chest and a shit ton on his back. He’s always admired the artistry, and when he got his first one—a frothing blue wave with a shining red sun in the background on his bicep (a bit ambitious for a first tat, but soooo worth it)—and realized that the needle doesn’t really hurt him all that much? Oooh boy. He got about seven that first year. His bank account was crying blood but he could not have been happier. He’s kind of lost count at this point of how many pieces he’s had completed, but he knows he’s far from done.

Yeah, so Shiro loves getting ink done.  _ Does not _ love doing ink. He’s practiced on some synthetic skin before, when his best friend Hunk’s brother Ezekial, a popular tattoo artist with his own shop uptown, had him try out a couple designs on a square patch. Shiro didn’t like the feel, didn’t really enjoy it as much he does painting. He’d thought it was a one off, even tried to give himself a tattoo to see if working with real skin might change his mind.

It did not change his mind.

To this day if Shiro wears shorts, you can still see his abortive attempt at etching a small model of the island of Okinawa on his thigh. It looks more like a crooked sickle than his birth island. When he’d shown it to his mom she’d laughed so hard she  _ cried _ .

He discovered body painting shortly after that, tripping down Youtube rabbit holes that began with the search “how to not suck at tattooing” and ended on these absolutely stunning optical illusions and multi-color avant garde pieces that reminded Shiro of shit he’d been half-paying attention to in his painting history classes in college. He was working as the assistant to popular muralist Allura and freelancing on the side for some extra cash and practice. Allura was doing this gorgeous forest piece on the side of a brand-new apartment building downtown. The company that had commissioned her wanted a new, out-of-the-box way to market the piece, and the building, to the public. Allura asked Shiro his opinion, and he brought up the idea of painting someone to blend in with the shimmering greenery.

She looked at him like he’d just paid her mortgage in gold nuggets. 

Turns out there was a body-painting studio nearby, Skin-to-Skin, that had no problem sending out one of their models to help.

It was an absolute hit on the company’s social media, and Allura told Shiro that she “could  _ kiss  _ him if she didn’t have a loving, homicidal wife at home!” 

Helping Allura paint their model… it felt so natural, so easy, the smoothest, most fascinating canvas he’d ever worked with. It was nothing like tattooing. And he fell hard for it.

Shiro checked out the body painting studio for himself, even found out that they were currently seeking artists. He sent in an app, not expecting much, but they took him on. He worked on a few projects that he really, really enjoyed, and they hired him full time. 

For a little while, he kept all three of his jobs: his assistantship with Allura, his freelancing, and his gig at the studio. He hadn’t been super fixated on it, but he kept on climbing the ranks at Skin-to-Skin. And climbing, and climbing, given so much work (and pay; boy’s gotta eat) that he eventually had to leave his job with Allura (they’re still on really good terms though; she’s an amazing mentor), and cut back  _ significantly  _ on his freelancing (to the dismay of thousands of his Boys’ Love followers). He threw himself into the work whole-hartedly, and before he knew it he’d been at Skin-to-Skin for five years.

Today, Shiro’s one of the most sought-after body-painting artists in the west. He’ll never bring it up or explicitly acknowledge it because he’s not like that, but it still makes him as giddy as a schoolgirl to think about.

Shiro’s worked damn hard to get as good as he is at what he does, and he’s extremely grateful that he’s found a job that so perfectly aligns with what makes him happy. So he’s perfectly professional about it: completes his pieces on time, attends every single convention he’s called to, and the nudity has never been a problem for him. Once you’ve painted water lilies onto somebody’s dick it’s hard to be affected by much else in the way of nakedness. 

He’s even perfectly professional with Lance, initially. Even when nobody else really is. 

Lance is gorgeous. High cheekbones, full lips, long-lashes that always make it seem like he’s wearing eyeliner. Lots of curly chestnut hair, big blue eyes, and the prettiest, richest brown skin Shiro’s ever seen. Shiro’s coworker Pidge was working on him the first day Shiro saw him, dappling swirling gold patterns onto his arms and thighs. It was apparently for the studio’s revamped ad campaign. He looked stunning.

But Shiro was still able to keep it together, just smiled friendly at the both of them as he walked past the door and proceeded to his station. Shiro is used to being surrounded by absurdly hot people twenty-five eight; they get plenty of folks from modelling agencies all over.

Except Lance isn’t a model. He looks like that for free.

He’s an easy-talker, that kind of charismatic conversationalist that could probably charm a lion into letting go of his arm. And he’s absolutely hilarious, speaks to anyone and everyone in the studio no matter what. Shiro thinks that Lance was probably the O-negative of kids in school: could universally donate his energy to literally anybody he came across, had his teachers ripping out their hair trying to figure out who to put his seat next to that he  _ wouldn’t  _ talk to.

Shiro overhears from Lance himself, chatting it up with Pidge a few weeks later, that he’s actually fresh out of college in his first year of social work. It makes him seem so much more attainable, and Shiro has to pop that thought as soon as it floats up inside him.

And yet,  _ and yet! _ , Shiro would  _ still  _ be able to keep up the professionalism.

If he was the only person who realized just how smoking hot Lance is.

Pidge and Ryan are really the only artists Lance works with (the schedule just kind of unfolds like that).

The first time Lance wears shorts to the studio Antok wolf-whistles at him. Lance grins as he walks past, gives Antok a wink while Shiro tries to smother his disbelief.

Lotor and Curtis flirt with him incessantly, catch him at the coffee machine in his fluffy white robe and stand closer than conversational distance would require. 

One late afternoon, as Lance is leaving the studio in some of the most form-fitting jeans Shiro has ever seen (and wow, that ass is incredible), Rolo sidles up to Shiro and says, like  _ out loud  _ with his mouth flaps,

“I’d sure like to make a mess in one of the workrooms with  _ that  _ one,” with his gaze trailing after Lance.

Shiro rolls his eyes. “Do you  _ always  _ have to be gross out loud?”

“I’m a man with eyes, Shiro!”

Shiro would be more worried about the comments (the fact that he agrees with every single one of them be damned) if Lance wasn’t giving as good as he got. If Lance didn’t have a goddamn mouth every bit as filthy as the pervs Shiro works with. It’s always interesting, because everybody always ceases their comments when Lance is being painted, adopting the critical, appraising eyes of artists, not men (and women) who’d gladly bend Lance over the office kitchen counter if given half the chance. And Shiro has never heard them speak this way about any of their other models, never even seen them touch Lance inappropriately or at all. It’s a strange dynamic, to say the least. But Lance is safe.

Within the first several months of Lance’s time with them, he and Shiro only really speak three or four times outside of quick “heys!” But still. Shiro would be lying if he said that he’s not developing a bit of a, hm, Orange Soda Crush on the guy. How could he not?

Yet, because Shiro’s an employed adult fully capable of controlling himself, when his boss Kolivan tells him that Lance will be his model/partner for the upcoming Into the Deep convention a few states over, Shiro receives the news calmly. Barely even feels his “crush” simmering in his gut (his brother Keith keeps calling it a crush, ever since Shiro slipped up that one time on the phone. Getting his spleen removed with no anesthesia would be easier than having Keith flame him, honestly). 

Skin-to-Skin is sending three teams to the convention to showcase their best work: Shiro and Lance, Ryan and Nadia, and Antok and James. Shiro throws himself into prepping the ocean scene he wants to do, finds himself anticipating just how good the glittering pearlescent sea shells are going to look on Lance’s skin. Finds himself thinking about the orientation of the scene… if he might paint the shells on his stomach, against the scene of a white-sand shore with a gold sun in the back. Maybe on his thighs, suspended in a deep blue that would make the color in Lance’s eyes flash like lightning soaked in sapphire. 

Shiro finishes his sketch through sheer force of will alone.

Three weeks later he sits next to Nadia on the plane during their red-eye flight, pretends that he’s not totally looking at the back of Lance’s head two rows down.

“Stare a little harder, Superman. I’m not sure he can  _ quite  _ feel it yet.”

Shiro looks away immediately, his face most likely guilty as shit. Nadia’s grinning.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She rolls her eyes. “Shiro, I have a very serious question. Answer like your life depends on it.”

“Am I gonna regret this?”

“What, do you not trust me or something? Keith’s crashed your car and you still trust him!”

“Keith’s my  _ brother _ … and I don’t trust him!”

“Aaaanways, I gotta ask: do you have any clue what you look like?”

Shiro frowns a bit. “What? Like, face shape? One of my cousins once told me my face was giving her ‘square bread loaf slice’—”

Nadia rolls her eyes again. “Shiro, you’re fine as hell. Probably the finest guy I’ve ever seen with my own two eyes, and if you weren’t gayer than a Calvin Klein ad I’d be trying to tap that.”

Shiro forces himself not to blush. “...Oh.”

“Yeah,  _ oh.  _ My point is that you can skip the pining! I could count about five heads right now that are periodically swivelling in your direction.” Nadia glances across the aisle. “Six.”

“There’s no way Lance is that superficial.”

“He’s not,” Nadia agrees, “and he’ll have my ass on a stick Dracula-style if he finds out I told you this, but I’m sick of this will-they-won’t-they CBS cable drama shit. Lance talks about you a whole lot, dude. He likes your tattoos,  _ loves _ your work, he likes how nice you are, and he definitely,  _ definitely  _ likes your face.”

Shiro has no idea what to say to that. He tries not to let the excitement show too plainly on his face, doesn’t really want to jump the gun just yet.

But Nadia seems to recognize her own victory anyways.

“Talk to him,” she says sweetly. 

They all share an Uber to the hotel together, so they get there at the same time. Shiro knows that he’ll be sharing a hotel room with Lance (has been steeling himself for it honestly), but he gets to the suite long before Lance does. 

Shiro sets down his stuff, and he has every intention of going to the hotel bar (where everybody in the groupchat had made explicit plans to socialize for a bit; the convention won’t officially start until around 3 p.m. the next day, plenty of time to sleep in a bit and still get their pieces ready for exhibition). But he plops down onto his bed for  _ three seconds  _ and before he knows it, he’s asleep.

Shiro has no idea what time Lance gets in, but when he wakes up the next morning he sees him in bed. Asleep on his stomach, an arm dangling over the side of the bed with his lips popped open in a small  _ o  _ and a leg drawn up to his chest. He’s in the  _ tiniest  _ black sleep shorts, and Shiro finds his eyes scrolling along the gorgeous form before his Respectable brain (you know, the one that  _ doesn’t  _ watch colleagues while they sleep?) can catch up.

Lance’s skin is perfectly smooth, and Shiro fully understands now why all of the pieces painted on his body come out so fluid. His legs are so hairless Shiro’s wondering just how close of a shave Lance gives them. He takes in how the hem of the shorts digs into a thick brown thigh, gaze sliding up to linger on the shape of Lance’s round ass in the fabric, shorts short enough to offer Shiro the tantalizing partial view of a curvy cheek. It has him stirring in his boxers.

Lance shifts, and Shiro closes his eyes, heart pounding.

It’s gonna take an act of iron will for him to get through painting this scene this morning. 

Shiro hops out of bed. Heads down to the gym to clear his head on the treadmill and weights, showers, grabs some breakfast. Avoids Nadia and her Grinch-who-stole-Christmas grin. You know, all in a day’s work. 

When he gets back to the room, Lance is up. Not only is Lance up. It seems that he’s freshly showered (Shiro can tell by the smell of cucumbers and peaches drifting into the main room from the bathroom, something Shiro is sure Lance brought himself). He’s shirtless, dressed in a different pair of navy short shorts (okay, does this kid own full-length pants?? Shiro’s gonna bust a blood vessel. Or something else...). And he’s arranging their tarp on the (pretty sizable piece of) ground in front of the TV, what looks like a protein bar hanging from his mouth.

When Shiro walks in Lance looks up from his kneeling position, and Shiro has to breathe through all the nasty shit that his brain supplies him with.

Lance takes the protein bar in hand, gives Shiro a big, bright smile.

“Should’ve known that you’re an early riser, Picasso!”

Oh Lance has  _ no  _ idea.

Shiro raises a brow. “Picasso?”

“The only other one I could come up with was ‘Shiro-gardo da Vinci,’ but it was so corny it made me wanna jump off the balcony… aaaand now I’ve said that out loud, haven’t I?”

“Hmm it’s a lot better than Kashi van Rogh.”

Lance gasps, affronted. “Who came up with that?? They weren’t  _ sober _ , were they?”

Shiro laughs. “Nah, Antok was drunk enough that I’m pretty sure he’s the  _ only  _ one of us who doesn’t remember that. Lucky bastard.”

Lance laughs in turn, and of course Shiro’s heard it before—Lance is a laugher—but never this close, and never in a conversation this extended.

“So,” Lance says, shifting so that his back’s straight and his butt’s on his heels. Shiro gets an eyeful of his dusky little nipples, the slightly defined planes of his stomach.

“Ready to get this started?”

This won’t be a full nude (Shiro’s blood pressure is thankful for  _ that _ ). When Lance slips out of his shorts Shiro sees that he’s in a pair of the brief-like underwear that body paint models use when they’re not going fully naked. They’re an almost perfect match to Lance’s soft brown skin, so that they won’t interrupt the flow of the piece at all. As Lance is finding a comfortable stance on the tarp and Shiro’s arranging his materials, he has this wild, flaring thought that he might catch literal fire when Lance turns around to get the back of his body done and Shiro sees that round, barely covered ass.

But about thirty minutes into gliding his brush along Lance’s thigh, he realizes just why Lance is such a popular model among his co-workers, why Pidge (whose affections are very,  _ very  _ hard-won, Shiro should know) consistently asks to work with Lance.

Lance’s body is steady, his breathing calm. He has the knack for a kind of commitment to stillness that Shiro’s only ever seen in those campy dudes body-painted to look like tin men in public parks. 

If Lance can be mature about this, so can Shiro.

Lance’s iron-clad control of his limbs is so reassuring, so soothing, that Shiro finds himself completely absorbed in the work, in the strokes of the brush, the intentional melding of colors. You don’t go into body painting because you love working with inanimate objects, and a body artist just has to learn how to deal with twitching, with spasms, with random jerking. Shiro’s learned to be patient: it’s a long ass process, after all, and at the  _ very least _ , the brush can tickle like a motherfucker. But Lance is something else entirely. Shiro doesn’t know how he’s doing it, but the immobility is remarkable.

So remarkable, in fact, that Shiro can still work on the scene as well silently as he does while speaking with Lance.

“When did you start painting?” Lance asks him, belly shifting minutely with the vibrations of his voice.

“Pretty much as soon as I learned my colors. As soon as somebody told me red and blue make purple I just had to see it for myself.”

Lance’s stomach tenses the slightest bit as he laughs. Shiro’s eyes flick to the hollow of his bellybutton, a deep black with the portion of the scene that Shiro has already rendered there.

“Super hands-on, huh? That’s makes a whole lotta sense.”

Shiro hums in agreement, tries to prevent himself from magicking some sort of double meaning from Lance’s words.

“My parents’ old house in Okinawa still has the spaceship I drew with Crayola markers in their bedroom. I think if anything it actually upped the resale value of the place so, you know, they’re welcome.”

Lance laughs again. “Wait, did you say Okinawa? I never got a chance to meet him before he died but my dad’s dad was from Ishigaki.”

Shiro smiles up at him, pauses for a bit. This close, he can see the impressions of Lance’s dimples with the adorable, conversational smile he’s sporting on full lips. Could this guy get any cuter?

“Small ass world, huh?”

Lance nods. “My family’s Cuban, and I’m not saying that it’s a colorblind utopia down there or anything, but my relatives seem to have done a whole lot of cultural exchange with the lights off.” 

“So you come from people-people,” Shiro remarks, amused.

“Yup.” Lance sounds just as amused.

Shiro does it absentmindedly at first. He’s trying to get a particular wave at a certain angle, so that when it catches the light it’ll look multidimensional. He places a few careful fingers on the inside of Lance’s thigh, more to further steady  _ his own  _ focus because these loops have proven a bit tricky, even on the paper he used to sketch it and the canvas he used to practice.

“ _ Nnhh _ ,” Lance moans.

Shiro freezes.

Lance freezes. 

Lance goes even more rigid than he’d been keeping himself for the past couple of hours, and that’s a goddamn feat.

It’s a moan, no doubt about that. Not like a  _ oh shit I haven’t had Italian in a while and this ziti’s really hitting the spot  _ type moan. Not like a  _ damn, it’s been a long ass day and it feels absolutely amazing when I stretch out my tense muscles  _ type moan. 

Shiro can’t help how swiftly his mind starts flipping through all the things Lance might say if this were happening in a different context where they  _ didn’t  _ have to be downstairs for a huge convention in four hours. 

_ That feels good. _

_ Do it again. _

_ Right there, fuck, right there,  _ **_yes_ ** .

_ More. _

Shiro takes a few steadying breaths. He knows how to deal with this (um, the fact that he’s never had a model moan while being worked on before notwithstanding, ahem). 

They’re here for four more hours, and no matter how much that  _ delicious  _ sound makes him perk up, no matter how quickly he catalogues it as just the tip (oh fuck) of an iceberg of noises Lance  _ probably makes  _ when he feels good… this is about Lance’s comfort. Finishing the piece too, of course, but Lance’s comfort seems to be the most immediate thing. So Shiro does what he’s good at, what Curtis and Antok and even Keith have derided him as an “annoying, non-confrontational bastard” for.

He keeps the conversation chug chug chugging along, goes right back to the section he was working on. Even places his fingers back on the inside of a supple thigh. Lance doesn’t make another sound (he’s probably more ready for the touch the second time around), and Shiro tells himself that he’s not a little disappointed.

“I would’ve never pegged you for the still, patient type.”

It’s a slight thing, but Shiro feels Lance relaxing again, reclaiming that natural stillness from before. 

Lance scoffs like he’s offended. “Honestly? I think my need to be admired overrides my need to move around all the time.”

Shiro laughs. “A need?”

“Yes, a need! Like breathing, eating. I might actually keel over and die if I don’t get the appropriate twelve hours a day. I think I was a granite statue in a past life. One of the ones at fountains and public baths and shit.”

Lance pauses, and Shiro lets him. It seems like he’s trying to find the words for something.

“But seriously? I had a loooot of trouble concentrating and sitting still as a kid, the ADHD diagnosis wasn’t much of a surprise. My meds either didn’t work at all—ping-ponging off the walls—or they worked  _ too  _ well—little baby Eyeore. My older sisters Rachel and Xiomara really got into yoga one year, and I was, well, I  _ am _ , like a little pipe cleaner so I was all over that. They opened up all their home sessions with meditation and for some reason it just kinda clicked with me. I could make my mind go quiet like nothing else really could, with the promise of something I loved doing on the line.”

Shiro pauses to look up at him again, and Lance is smiling pretty at the memories.

“Is it a little bit of the same way with body art?”

Lance nods. “I can’t draw for shit but I love seeing what other people can do with their brushes. And… I have to admit, I’ve been hoping we’d get to work together soon.”

When Shiro glances up at Lance’s face his eyes are low-lidded, curls falling across his forehead. Shiro holds his gaze, takes the fingers he already has pressing into the skin of a soft thigh and drags them up slowly, slowly, towards the crease where thigh meets groin.

Lance’s eyes fall shut on a breathy gasp, and he brings a hand down on Shiro’s shoulder to steady himself.

“We get through the rest of this day,” Shiro tells him in a low voice, fingers stroking the soft skin, “and you can have anything you want from me.”

They finish the piece in time, and without incident. The whole room smells like paint, but Shiro, this close to Lance, can still smell his body-wash, his sharp citrus shampoo.

There’s really no skirting around it—conventions are  _ exhausting _ , okay? Shiro’s been to more than he can count in the past five years, and he still hasn’t quite mastered the art of not quietly losing his goddamn mind after hours on non-stop interaction and talking. Not to say that he doesn’t love the folks that come out, because he does. But there’s only so many conversations he can hold in one day before it starts to feel like his other organs are playing beach volleyball with his brain.

Lance is a goddamn natural though.

Shiro has no clue how he does it. But Lance is laughing, talking, joking, posing for pictures with folks the whole while. Absolutely beautiful doing it, a wedge of ocean made flesh. Gorgeous skin covered in something that  _ Shiro  _ made. Shiro feels a flash of something possessive streak through him sharp and hot. Which is  _ ridiculous  _ because Lance is a person and Shiro doesn’t own him. But to see him covered head to toe in something Shiro designed, to see the muscled planes of his back covered in sand and seashells and fish that  _ Shiro  _ etched into the skin there… While Shiro’s in the middle of explaining his technique to a group of young upcoming artists from a few towns over, Lance walks by with Nadia and James, sporting the brilliant works of Shiro’s co-workers.

Shiro has the most vivid—like he’s talking That’s So Raven, flashes of the  _ future  _ vivid—fantasy of bending Lance over while he’s still in paint and stroking himself off till he cums stark white against the whirlpools he’d swirled into his lower back.

The end of the convention could not have come soon enough. 

Lance is the one who comes to find him, sidles up to Shiro with his hands clasped behind himself.

He’s grinning. “Sooo… I know that Nadia and James are just gonna wash off their paint in their suite bathrooms, but  _ I  _ personally think that that’s a terrible idea. I always seem to need help getting everything off, and those tubs are definitely not big enough for two.”

Shiro feels a smirk of his own growing. “Is that so?”

“Mmhmm. But the gym has all those industrial showers and shit? You could fit four linebackers in a single one with room to spare.”

Lance stares unabashedly at Shiro’s bicep, lip caught between his teeth.

Shiro answers honestly, can already feel his stomach heating up. 

“I am four and a half seconds away from throwing you over my shoulder and sprinting out of here like I stole you out of a bank vault.”

Lance laughs. “You could definitely lift me up, huh.”

It’s not a question, but Shiro answers anyway. 

“Easy.”

Lance is completely correct about the gym showers. Not only is each one huge. Instead of the usual flimsy curtains that Shiro’s seen other places use to close each stall, each shower is basically a room of its own, with a long lockable door that does wonders for privacy.

Lance brings the specialized, paint-dissolving wash with an unbelievable effectiveness that Shiro’s seen firsthand. They’d stopped by the room to pick up a few things. Lance “accidentally” bumped into Shiro a few times, round ass pressing against his forearm. Shiro had felt it for the barest few moments, made himself tamp down the urge he hand to grab a cheek in hand right then there, to test the give, play with the squishiness.

If he did that they’d  _ never  _ make it out of the room. 

After they’ve grabbed towels, clothes, and Lance snatches up a robe, they’re heading down to the gym showers. 

Shiro follows Lance into a stall with his eyes glued to his ass. Shiro doesn’t know how he’d managed to keep it together earlier, etching a portrait of the deep sea on plump cheeks like he didn’t just want to part them and slide home. 

He barely remembers to lock the door, he’s so goddamn distracted. 

Lance is arranging all their stuff in a cubby that’ll protect them from the spray, humming all the while. Sets the paint dissolving body wash, as well as a few other bottles Shiro would have to be way closer to figure out, on the small shelf near the shower head. He’s fiddling with the shower, making these cute frustrated grunts as he tries to work the dial. Shiro slips out of his clothes, grips himself momentarily through his briefs before he shucks those off too. 

“A _ ha _ !” Lance exclaims when he gets it to finally turn on. 

Shiro sidles up to him, where his back’s still turned. Lance is testing the temperature of the spray with an outstretched hand when Shiro wraps an arm around his stomach and pulls him into the warmth of his body, cock hard and hot between the cleft of Lance’s cheeks. 

“Thought you were gonna help me get clean?” Lance says, grinding back against his length. 

“I will,” Shiro rumbles into the skin of his neck, “...eventually.” 

To be fair, they  _ do  _ start off with removing some of Lance’s paint. Shiro helps him scrub the soap into his skin (Shiro could  _ definitely  _ get used to helping Lance after his sessions), fingers lingering just like he’d wanted them to that morning. On Lance’s stomach, his legs, his back. His jiggly ass,  _ fuck _ . He crowds Lance against the wall and kisses him till they’re both breathless, marveling at how his pouty lips feel exactly as plush as they look. His cock hardens further at the heat of Lance’s mouth, the strokes of his clever tongue, his sweet moans when Shiro takes the reins and tips his head back to devour his mouth. Shiro wraps a hand around Lance’s hard, pretty cock, strokes along the length to tease a thumb at the slit. 

Lance throws his head back to gasp helplessly at the feeling, arms tight around Shiro’s neck. 

He yields beautifully. 

Shiro meant the hand on his cock as a tease initially, but Lance trembles so much, so gorgeously under the treatment—hips bucking in a desperate chase for more _ , more, please Shiro _ —that Shiro firms his grasp and strokes him off till he comes.

“That’s it, beautiful,” he murmurs, kissing his jaw, “let me see you lose it.” 

He turns Lance around so they’re chest to back, draws the flat of a hand up his stomach and pauses at his chest to thumb at a nipple. 

“ _ Yes _ ,” Lance hisses, still grinding. 

Shiro chuckles, lands a kiss behind Lance’s ear that makes him tilt his head further, like he’s asking for more. 

“Sensitive all over huh?”

“Only with you _ fuck _ ,” Shiro’s heart beats hard at that. 

Lance cuts himself off as Shiro uses both hands to thumb at his sweet, responsive nipples. They’re not in the direct path of the shower spray, but they’re close enough that they’re damp with warm water already.

Lance angles his head back for a kiss, and Shiro gives him one. It’s slow and hot, as deep as they can make it in this position. 

When they pull apart Shiro is gripping Lance’s hips and falling into rhythm with him, eyes riveted on the sight of his big, thick length sandwiched between Lance’s fleshy cheeks, blots of blue, sudsy paint interrupting golden brown to bring forth a portrait that has Shiro leaking precum onto Lance’s lower back. 

Shiro thrusts between them as Lance moans pretty for him, as Lance braces himself against the wall with balled fists.

Shiro reaches over Lance’s head to grab the first bottle his hand lands on.

“Want you on your knees for a little bit, sweetheart,” Shiro tells him, urges him to the bench with a hand on his hip and a hand on the bottle. 

He sets it down as he gets on the ground with Lance. He has the pretty boy bend over the bench for him so that his chest’s against the hardwood. Shiro takes the shirt he’d previously been wearing and helps Lance shift onto that, so his knees are somewhat spared from the tile. He’s a gentleman like that dammit. 

Lance’s ass from this angle is… Shiro gulps, takes a cheek in each hand. His mouth dries at the heavy weight, the way they spill out of his hands. It’s toned, but jiggly enough that Shiro  _ knows  _ this ass is approximately 30% squats, 70% nature. 

It’s the most incredible ass Shiro’s ever gotten his hands on (and Shiro’s far from celibate, regardless of Ryan’s rumors, the goddamn gossip). 

So Shiro tells Lance so. 

Lance laughs breathlessly, cheek pressed against the bench. 

“I never caught you staring but I always thought you were an ass man.”

“Yeah?” Shiro murmurs, sliding his hands to Lance’s thick thighs. Things of wonder, god _ damn _ .

“Yeah. You think it’s good now, wait till you see what it looks like when you’re fucking me.”

Shiro groans, eyes falling shut so he doesn’t lose sight of what he intends to do (and in what order). He’s still stroking Lance’s thighs, marveling at the give. They’re almost completely free of blue paint but there are some streaks here and there. He thumbs at wet, glistening brown skin. 

Shiro picks up the bottle he brought with him and squirts some into his hand (it smells like strawberries and mint, seems expensive; he hopes Lance won’t kill him post-fuck).

“Spread those thighs for me, gorgeous,” he tells Lance.

Lance does it with a sweet moan, bottom lip caught between his teeth again.

Shiro lines the inside of Lance’s thighs with the viscous liquid from the bottle. Shiro slicks himself down too, hand rough and hasty with it. He takes hold of Lance’s hip again, uses his other hand to press his cock into the warm, slick space between Lance’s thick thighs. He’s heady with it all: his hard, aching cock tucked between Lance’s soft thighs, Lance’s plush ass pressed against him, Lance’s breathy moans when Shiro reaches around to find his cock plump and leaking once more and strokes him slowly. Lance is absolutely dripping, length so hot in his hands that Shiro has to let off so he doesn’t cum just yet.

Shiro lets out a shaky groan.

Lance feels Shiro’s hot, hard cock between his legs and closes his thighs a bit, makes the sweet space even tighter. Lance whimpers as the motion causes Shiro’s cock to rub wetly against his balls. 

“Just like that, gorgeous,” Shiro murmurs.

He pulls free of the clutch, mesmerized by how Lance’s fleshy thighs mold around his length, a stunning sepia encasing his flushed shaft. When he pushes all the way in this time he does it a bit harder, and Lance’s unbelievable ass hits his thighs with a soft, erotic  _ smack! _

“ _ Y-yes _ ,” Lance moans, meeting Shiro with rolls of his own hips, sinuous up-down motions that send his ass to bouncing.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Shiro groans at the sight.

Shiro leans forward a bit, places a kiss to plump red lips as he increases the pace of his thrusts. Lance’s thick ass hits his thighs at regular intervals now, loud smacks that ping around their stall incessantly. They’re louder than the shower that Shiro and Lance have left abandoned. There’s a part of Shiro that hopes that no one else is trying to take a shower right now, because they’ll definitely be able to hear the slaps of Lance’s round, fat ass against him, Lance’s breathy moans, the smacking of their filthy kisses, Shiro’s grunts.

“ _ This  _ is how I’m gonna fuck your ass, baby,” Shiro tells Lance.

He pulls all the way out till only the tip of his cock rests between the tight hold of Lance’s thighs, then thrusting in slowly so Lance can feel every single hot inch of Shiro sliding against the sensitive skin just below his groin. Shiro reaches around to wrap a hand around Lance’s cock again, gives him these slow, inconsistent jerks that wouldn’t be enough to come by even if Shiro wasn’t a sadistic bastard. Lance lets out this throaty, frustrated groan that has more precum beading at the tip of Shiro’s cock.

“More, baby. Please, I want  _ more _ .”

Shiro kisses his temple, adopts a rougher pace that has him closer to edge.

“Really, sweetheart? Because I could fuck these pretty thighs all day.”

“N-no,” Lance moans, and with the way Shiro’s glued to his lovely back he can literally  _ feel  _ him panting. 

Shiro leans back, grips Lance’s plump cheeks once more.  _ Fuck  _ he’ll never get tired of that. It’s a dangerous feeling really, to now know what Lance’s round, curvy ass feels like in his hands. To know that he’ll probably never be able to look at Lance’s ass in those tight jeans he seems to love so much again without thinking  _ damn, i know  _ **_exactly_ ** _ what it feels like to grip that _ . 

He parts the cheeks. His eyes water at the sight of Lance’s pretty little hole, furled and shut up tight.

Shiro doesn’t know if he’ll last long enough to fuck into Lance’s ass this go round ( _ fuck _ he bets he’s tight as hell), but he still knows how to give Lance what he wants.

“You need something in that pretty ass asap, huh baby?” Shiro murmurs, thumbing at the little hole.

“ _ Mmhmm _ .”

Shiro scoots back a bit, leans down till his face is level with Lance’s pretty hole, those incredible, plush cheeks. Shiro hopes he can get Lance to sit on his face one day, he really does. 

Some of the blue paint on his ass is coming off onto Shiro’s hands, but he couldn’t care less. He holds Lance’s cheeks apart, flicks out his tongue to get his first taste of this pretty, pretty boy’s hole. Lance gives an approving moan.

Shiro’s never been a guy who does things by halves. If he orders a drink at a bar and it tastes like battery acid cut through with window cleaner, he’s going to take it down till it starts tasting like lemon water. If the color in a piece isn’t coming out quite right, he’ll sit there and fiddle with it till he gets it right, even if it makes his eyes water.

Presented with Lance’s fat, round ass, Lance already rolling his hips back a bit in eager anticipation, Shiro eats him out like he might never get the chance to again. Who needs to breathe anyway?

As soon as he coaxes that shy little hole open with his insistent, unrelenting tongue, he’s off. He hauls Lance’s lovely ass back towards his face with his steady grip on the cheeks. Uses his thumbs to spread him so he can wriggle in the wet muscle entirely uninhibited.

“ _ Fuuhuck, _ ” Lance moans for him. Shiro pulls back a bit to take in the sight of Lance’s hole twitching, glistening with spit.

“Fucking hell, you’re gonna be so  _ tight  _ for me, yeah?”

Shiro dives back in, seals his mouth over the widening opening (Lance has such a delicious, obedient hole) and sucks. Lance  _ sings  _ for him then, moans that break into whimpers that break into half-formed sobs. Lance reaches a trembling hand back and threads it through Shiro’s hair, like he’s trying to steady himself. Shiro’s real messy about it, spit running down his chin as he holds Lance fast and fucks him open on a devious tongue. Shiro pulls back, licks across the winking hole with a broad stroke. He bites down gently on a plump cheek, and Lance responds with a breathy whimper as he pushes his ass back towards Shiro’s face in further offering. 

Shiro chuckles. “That’s it, beautiful. Let me have that pretty ass.”

Shiro’s eaten Lance out so thoroughly at this point that he’s able to press in two of his fingers. Shiro bites his lip and takes his cock in hand at the tight, hot fit. He pushes them into the last knuckle, seeks out Lance’s sweet spot. When he finds it he grinds down on it, and Lance makes a sound like the breath’s been punched from his chest. It’s so fucking sexy that the hand Shiro has on himself immediately speeds up. Lance’s loses the grip he’d had in Shiro’s hair, helpless to the pleasure.

Shiro scissors his fingers apart, gets that pretty hole to stretch for him so he worm his tongue between them, right back into that yummy heat. He lets go of himself to take Lance’s cock in hand instead.

“ _ Oooh fuck _ ,” Lance groans.

It doesn’t take long after that. Shiro makes his grip tight, and Lance fucks into his hand, the eager little thing. Between rocking back towards Shiro’s face, snug ass stuffed full of two fingers and a wet tongue, and thrusting into Shiro’s hand Lance can no longer hold on.

“ _ Shiro! _ ” he cries as he cums, ass tightening around the fingers Shiro’s still using to hold him apart.

“Perfect, baby.  _ Yes _ , that’s it gorgeous. Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

Shiro pulls back as Lance tries to catch his breath. With one hand holding Lance’s cheek aside for a view of his perfect little hole, he wraps the other around his cock again and knows that it won’t be much longer. He strokes himself quickly, roughly, aims the tip of his cock towards the pretty, swollen rim of Lance’s entrance.

Shiro cums with a deep groan, a satisfaction he hasn’t felt in ages. He tries to keep his eyes open to watch his white cum hit Lance’s hole and crease, but he only gets a couple moments of that view before his eyes are closing. He works himself through his orgasm blindly, keeps his cock aimed at Lance’s ass.

When he opens his eyes again he licks his lips at what he sees. Lance’s ass streaked in his spend, ribbons of it dripping across his pretty hole, all along his crease, clinging to the inside of his fat cheeks. There’s white across the meat of them too, stark against Lance’s rich brown skin.

“Holy shit,” Lance pants.

Shiro laughs, slumps down to give him a kiss. Takes a moment to appreciate that pretty 

face right up close—the long lashes, the flushed cheeks. That red mouth…  _ fuck  _ the things he wanted to do to that mouth.

Shiro helps Lance up and they flop onto the bench, Lance in his lap so they’re chest to chest. Lance tucks his face into Shiro’s neck, still catching his breath. It’s got Shiro’s ego somersaulting. Shiro’s got his arms wrapped around Lance’s trim waist, idly stroking the skin of his back.

“Gotta say,” Lance murmurs into his skin, “didn’t think the first meal you had around me would be my ass.”

Shiro blurts out a laugh. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

Lance sits up to meet Shiro’s eyes. God, always that fucking face. Shiro’s acquired several new weaknesses in the past few months, and they all have to do with the guy sitting in his lap.

Lance is grinning. “You  _ might’ve  _ mentioned that between eating me out like instant ramen and making me see every other parallel universe that exists.”

Shiro feels himself blushing, grinning back at Lance. “High praise.”

“You deserve it, trust me.”

“Can our next meal be shared? You know, like at a table in public with our clothes on.”

Lance bounces excitedly in his lap which is doing  _ very  _ interesting things to Shiro’s dick. They’re both still naked, after all.

“Fuck yes!”


End file.
